The stories shall say that Hardir O'Fardor ruled on three thrones. I can attest to that. He had a granite throne made for himself, and a throne of platinum and ivory made for the princess. For she was precious. Finally, there was the secreted golden throne that a cruel destiny had once vacated and Hardir had discarded, until the same destiny decided to refill the void. Fire and gold. Black stone and the lurking shades of the Others. Spell threads of divine magic and a throne of clear quartz and real diamonds. I've faced the most difficult task the God of Light has ever given me without fear.

So I came to appreciate the times I spent in Morn Taras and remember them fondly. Where others saw malice, I witnessed brutal pragmatism. I observed immense talent instead of empty vanity, and arrogance born out of mysticism. As the King frequently declared with passion, 'we are far from perfect, but damnit in this blasted environment, we're good enough!'

-

The Monarch, the Princess and the Sorceress.

Akira of Magor (born 170 NC in Magor, Greenwhale Peninsula)

A sacred Nina-Musha,

A Priestess of Light

& the Imperial Princess Tutor.

From notes gathered from her writings during the nine years she spent in Wetull.

-

Glen

Lord Reeves

Arguen Garth

Hardir O' Fardor

Lord of Morn Taras

Monarch of Wetull

King beyond the Pale Mountains

Aniculo Rokae

Duath Erin I Menel

Malantur O' Furu

'Rhu Fareno'

Far from perfect

Abarat Governor's palace

First floor balcony overlooking the main square

"They know," Goras' Judicar and the Governor of Abarat Vaelenn, informed a sweaty Glen the moment the latter climbed the stairs to reach the floor over the main hall with the high-ceiling and immediately led him to the balcony outside.

A small crowd had surrounded the palace.

"Who told them?" Glen grunted and hearing people entering the hall behind them turned to see who it was. Sir Alan Kirk had escorted Aelrindel upstairs for some privacy, but Lady Olonelis with Ivaraen had followed the knight as they were present in the Governor's throne room when Glen's entourage had arrived.

"Everyone returning from the Garden," Vaelenn replied with a glance at the -masqueraded into the Mori-Zilan Lenar- anxious sorceress. "Talked of magic, werewolves and the Monarch's Wyvern wreaking havoc."

"Help diffuse the situation," Glen corrected his official brusquely. "Write it down, make sure you leave no room for other interpretations of what happened."

"As you wish, Hardir," the one-armed Vaelenn yielded. She had a fake silver arm on, folded over her chest, a very fancy look but probably uncomfortable and difficult to pull off for normal folk, unless one was vain enough to chop an arm off to properly don this expensive piece of jewelry.

"Fêted Arguen Garth," Lady Olonelis greeted him coming to stand next to Sir Alan Kirk and cast a brief stare to the silent sorceress. Half of it curious, the other half critical of her very dirty garbs and shoes.

They had dragged dirt and red clay from the lake inside the Governor's home, but Olonelis had opted to scold the unknown female for it instead of the equally culpable Monarch.

Though it could be the short skirt. Abarat is pretty conservative, Glen thought and realized he'd completely missed Olonelis' query. He furrowed his brows all serious, clenched his jaw next, in order to show his displeasure –just in case and then directed his austere stare on Lady Vaelenn.

Remaining otherwise silent.

"Hardir," Vaelenn muttered with a grimace of despair. "I haven't seen the sorceress yet."

Ah.

The stone-faced Glen nodded and looked at the standing timidly Aelrindel, whilst a trickle of sweat run down the dorsum of the Monarch's nose and stopped at the tip. It strained his patience as the moment dragged and the comely 'Mori-Zilan' changed her expression to coquettish.

Now intrigued, Olonelis turned her head to examine for a second time the healer and Glen realized Aelrindel hasn't switched expressions in reality, but had just dropped the illusion in the blink of an eye. The bridge of her nose thinned, the cheekbones rose gracefully, and two large eyes flashed a pure azure with tiny veins of silver and gold color adorning her ovoid –now much lighter in color- perfectly symmetrical face.

For a brief moment the sorceress stood in all her glory in front of the Monarch and his silent officials. Also a touch taller than everyone present.

Damn.

It's the heels, his brain reasoned.

Still… damn.

"The late high priestess' love and joy," Lady Olonelis commented returning Aelrindel's bow with a one of her own, everyone missing Vaelenn who had prostrated herself at the witch's feet in the meantime.

"Goddess," the governor said as the sorceress' face changed again to that of 'Lenar', the healer. "This day is great."

"Lady Olonelis, apologies for the deception," Aelrindel said in humming Imperial. "I appreciate the work you've done inside the Garden."

"Not for a while I haven't," Olonelis replied maintaining her composure, while the sorceress helped the groveling Judicar to her feet. "I dedicated myself to salvaging what was nigh important, family and the remnants of our nation. Left the garden to its own devices."

"I heard old Lord Suraer is still around," Aelrindel remarked.

"He is, ever unchanged like the mountains and the sun on the sky, but our folk need more than food and shelter to really flourish, whilst the horses he still keeps company don't really care. Lord Suraer of course still values their opinion more."

The horses' opinion was her meaning.

Imperial palace humor, riddled with criticism and subtle digs, Glen thought trying to figure out whether the witch's breasts had also changed size –alike her height- during the brief switcheroo and the further implications of this reveal.

And while many folk might find this a trivial and even vulgar a line of thought, Glen didn't belong in this prosaic group of low-energy peoples. Hence, he didn't share their opinion, or give two dry shits about it.

"He'd like to visit you," Olonelis said, her offer averting Glen's penetrating gaze from the witch's slightly rising and falling bust back to her. "And you should mingle with the citizens of Abarat."

Eh?

"I'm a little tired," Aelrindel contended weakly.

"We all are. It was a difficult week," Olonelis countered.

"It was a bit longer than a week for me."

"We can argue and accomplish nothing, or move forward and do something. People shall rejoice at the opportunity to leave the past behind. It has been thirteen centuries since a Sibyl last visited."

Aelrindel offered her a thin smile, but then breathed out and glanced beyond Glen, towards the open balcony. "I'll listen to the citizens of Abarat, Lady Olonelis."

"Ivaraen shall escort you to the palace yard and open the gates," Olonelis replied.

"I'll go as well," Vaelenn volunteered.

"Let me stop you fine ladies right there," the largely ignored up until then Glen intervened. "This doesn't sound like a good idea to me."

The Monarch gets the final say was his meaning, but it apparently fell on deaf ears.

Large, stirring ears.

"Isn't she free to go?" Olonelis probed. "You said so at your coronation, Hardir."

Uh? Come again now?

"I've said many things at different times," Glen grunted very annoyed.

"Indeed, but I was speaking of that specific day, sensible Monarch," Olonelis insisted. "It's written into law. Vaelenn?"

You shrewd erudite cow.

The Judicar nodded too scared to openly argue with the cornered Monarch.

"There might be dangers out there we don't know about," Glen retorted with a grimace of annoyance and the witch raised a taunting eyebrow.

"Well, she does and can warn us in time," Olonelis argued. "She's a Sibyl, just like her mother and grandmother."

"The last one caused us problems," Glen blurted and had to face the ancient Elderblood's austere gaze directed at him.

"The Third Sibyl, the sorceress Ena you are referring to, had been greatly traumatized in the war and then remained in a severe coma for centuries, effectively buried alive inside a tomb. Your grace could have ruled differently since then, even restored the Queen's decree, but didn't," Olonelis insisted with a glare at the silent Judicar. Vaelenn seemed awestruck by the sorceress' presence to offer her any assistance.

How the fuck did I lose this argument? Glen wondered.

Spent half the time looking at the witch's tits? His mind offered.

Well.

"Sir Alan," a miffed Glen rustled. "You'll escort our guest downstairs and keep her in the yard. Take Samak and as many guards as you need, but make certain nothing funny happens."

"Aye milord," the weary Alan said and bravely wore the heavy Rokae masked helm again to march outside into the hot summer sun.

Glen watched briefly as Vaelenn announced to the growing crowd that the Sibyl will listen to their requests and then walked back inside. Lady Olonelis hadn't joined him in the palace yard, but remained near Rothomir's throne and stared in silence a painted wall depicting a map of Wetull.

"With her and Lithoniela in the Council," Olonelis told Glen, who paused filling a goblet with water to listen to her, "you've restored a big part of it, the Cydonia Cazan's old ways, the Imperial Elauthin, and the avant-garde that was Goras. All their differences too. Not everything can be repaired with a Monarch's word. Actions might be more difficult."

"Lithoniela brought the Sorceress here," Glen replied and drunk some water, before he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Does she know?"

"Difficult not to," Glen said. "What does it matter?"

"Edlenn was implicated in Ninthalor and Braeniriel's murder. Her grandfather and grandmother. Baltoris was certain."

"I'm not of the same opinion," Glen grunted.

"Is she? The princess," Olonelis probed.

"A witch as powerful as a Sibyl would have killed the King without problem or much risk," Glen rustled.

"Or hire assassins to do it."

"No assassins were hired," Glen retorted. "I know this from the assassin leader's mouth. I believe several people are aware of this despite the Queen's convictions, but opted to remain silent for political reasons. A proper investigation would have solved the murder. Instead Edlenn was blamed and then murdered by properly hired assassins, Aenymriel cast in an unfavorable light and well… the real culprit hid under a myth… inside people's horror tales."

"Perhaps you are right."

"I expected a bit more fight from you," Glen told her a little surprised.

"I knew the High Priestess. She wasn't a murderer. Worked with her inside the Garden," Olonelis replied. "Edlenn was troubled sure, traumatized by the war and had her political ambitions, fueled by the need to preserve a whole culture in danger of pushed aside. You want to know why?"

"Magic is more difficult to master than gardening," Glen teased the austere Zilan Elderblood and was rewarded with the hint of a smile.

Olonelis skill with plants could be seen on the vine wall hugging the south bank of acid lake and the fields around the castle town.

"Not by a lot, but gardening is up there," Olonelis replied. "Jesting aside, Hardir is correct. Dabbling in spells can be deadly and takes an extreme toll on one's psyche. Even when using mediums, little pieces of ourselves are lost, burned away," she added knowingly. Glen grimaced and brushed his long grey hair back.

"Not everything is magic related," he told her and she pursed her mouth, opting not to answer either way.

"How long will it take?" He asked a couple of hours later, as more and more citizens flocked to the palace yard to speak with the sorceress. Zilan stood in the sun patiently, old and young, with some families of humans visiting Abarat now added to the growing crowd.

"People want to learn of the future," Olonelis replied finishing her meal, a salad basically and pushing the plate away. Glen had taken the opportunity to sample the full range of the local cuisine. Unfortunately, the ostrich steak he had ordered after been assured it was eatable turned out to be too hard for his teeth –or any teeth- whilst the deviously labeled 'beef-in-its-juices' turned out too bloody for his likes.

Basically fully raw and dripping gore.

A lot.

"Well…" Glen murmured moving the red piece of meat about with a fork. "I thought a divination isn't accurate. Details change the moment it is uttered or something… this fucking thing is barely touched by fire damn it!" He cursed and glared at one of the palace's officials. Lianthorn, the castellan.

"Lord Garth, I cooked it myself," the Zilan courtier protested.

"Cooked, he says… the blasphemer!" Glen retorted angrily. "Have you no shame?"

"Don't overreact," Olonelis said. "Lianthorn is a great cook."

"A great crook you mean," Glen snapped and pushed the plate away. He grabbed a towel to wipe the blood from his fingers.

Fuck's sake.

It got on the leather sleeves, ruined the shirt.

"Leave us Lianthorn," Olonelis ordered, patiently waiting for the manic Glen to brush the blood stains from his new outfit. "Have some cake. It has whole strawberries inside."

"Hmm," Glen murmured and reached for the second platter. He checked first to make sure Olonelis wasn't pulling his leg and then shoved the large round piece of cake in his mouth. Honeyed dough, strawberries and all.

For a moment he couldn't move his stuffed mouth at all and just nodded as Olonelis continued after pushing herself up from her seat.

"I requested a ship to take me to Ani Ta-Ne," she said walking to his side of the table to refill his goblet with wine. The Zilan offered the goblet to the slowly chewing teary Monarch. "I understand you've granted me passage, Hardir."

"Ahm," Glen mumbled, gulping down a large strawberry.

Went down like a ball inside his esophagus.

"I'd like the ship to take me from Nyomel," Olonelis continued. "I'll travel there myself."

Glen washed his mouth with some wine -a lot of it and after grimacing not really favoring the difference in taste, he croaked. "The Garden is dangerous."

"Your Rokae cleaned it up. It's easier to travel from the channel port," Olonelis argued. "I want to see the damage also and whether I can help restoring it."

"What's so important about the garden?" Glen asked after clearing his throat and eyeing another piece of cake covered in large slices of lime fruit.

"Wetull has wild vegetation, exotic but also unsafe. The Garden is much more cultivated, be it in fruits or much needed spices and incense used in spells," Olonelis elucidated. "Concentrated in a place easy to navigate, after Hardir repairs the road to the river's delta and the ruins of Nyomel port."

"Eh," Glen grunted.

"Hardir will repair the road, open the paths and restore the port," Olonelis repeated. "As he has done for Mussel. What the navy gets today or tomorrow the army, you should offer to the other parts of your Council, before a request is made."

Glen pushed back on the chair and licked his lips.

The cake was fine.

"You tried to warn me earlier," he told her.

"Hardir is correct."

"How do I control the army? Do I have to? Anfalon seems content with what he has in Taras."

"Anfalon was never political. Onas and the rest of them are," Olonelis replied.

"What would please Lord Onas? He asked to be in Ani Ta-Ne and I agreed."

"To keep Onas happy, you must remain in Olonelis' good graces," Olonelis elucidated without batting an eyelash.

"What does Olonelis want on top of having a ship to move back and forth to the Peninsula?" Glen murmured using a butter knife to cut the cake down the middle.

"Darunia should rule Ani Ta-Ne," Olonelis said. "Rebuild what the Khan destroyed and make it better."

"Onas is basically in charge there," Glen argued. "And Darunia is not an engineer."

"A ruler can find herself an engineer and Onas shall step down, leave Viceroy Metu to assist her," Olonelis explained.

"Should I ask why the old goat would ever agree to this arrangement," Glen probed. "Or the fact he stayed there after the slave revolt ended has more to do with your daughter serving near the Phalanx and her affair with Roran?"

"I never discuss my affairs in public Hardir," Olonelis countered. "I don't intent to start doing it now. This is a personal request and a way to have two votes in the pocket today, you may need on the morrow."

"You'll have your ship Lady Olonelis," Glen replied thoughtfully. "And a title for noble Darunia, but what about Abarat?"

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

"Vaelenn is your choice, with the sorceress here and the future clearly changing, it is time I looked after my own. Travel where I'm needed," Lady Olonelis elucidated keeping it vague.

"Is Vaelenn a good choice?" Glen asked with a small smile.

"She's boring, a religious bureaucrat for life and scared of you," Olonelis retorted. "Can't get any better than that."

-

Six more hours later

Late afternoon

"What are they doing?" An incensed Glen asked Samak, when the Cofol ex-slaver returned inside the Abarat governor's palace. "You need to get moving on the morrow and I need to get back to Taras damn it!"

"This might not get finished today great Caliph," Samak replied. "More locals are coming to hear the seer."

"Is she making a speech? Get out there and stop her!"

"Answers their queries more like, your grace."

"About what? What do they want to learn?"

"Big and small things. A child's future, the fate of a bad illness and whether fortune awaits them down the line."

"That's such bullshit," Glen hissed and walked up and down the table's length, the latter still filled with platters of his earlier meal as even the palace personnel had opted to wait in line to consult with the soothsayer witch. "Nothing she says will come to fruition. But they shall all for sure burn themselves under the sun and boil their brains out completely by the time they get this malarkey over! I just can't understand this fascination," Glen continued and seeing Samak's expression asked curious in a fake reasonable voice. "You disagree friend?"

"No, great Caliph," Samak denied it, not falling for the obvious trap.

"You actually believe this crap?" Glen snapped not satisfied, since he really wanted to know.

"Lord Garth, most Cofols respect the seers' visions and the dreams sent by the gods, our elders in the desert still toss the bird bones each night to see where they may fall and all slave-wives read the remnants of the Kofi seeds beverage in the bottom of a cup each morning," Samak replied with a grimace ravaging his sweaty tanned face.

Glen had witnessed it firsthand in the Peninsula. Heard Sen-Iv admit it before he had departed for Wetull. Many things had turned out to be true in the end.

Or pretty close to it.

I had a dream, his long dead wife had told him in a haunted voice.

A pirate's secret still unknown, and forty tons of gold.

I'll be damned.

The woman clad in the white mesh robes and full-face niqab head cover the sorceress wore in Rida, returned his gaze. Azure eyes gleaming behind the finger-narrow opening. The sheer robes swished, when she walked past him in order to enter the dark tent. The body of a dancer making it seem like she glided, before she disappeared behind the tent's cover.

Jewelry on naked skin under those robes.

Not this shit again, Glen groaned inwardly and the bystander, a Cofol merchant standing next to him in the bazaar, saw his gaze following the woman and said.

'A fortune teller. The old lady inside the tent knows her stuff.'

There was no old lady there. Just a titillating young minx.

Or not.

Vision and reality blurring together.

The gods meddling.

'Sure. A man sees what he wants,' the unknown Cofol of his past had agreed.

'Behold the mother of the son you'll never meet,' the old seer had told him soon after. 'Unless you repent.'

Fuck off old crone, Glen thought and tried to hark back to the earlier memory, check whether the unknown younger seer outside the tent was someone familiar.

'Come and see.'

'Only the gone can carry the Traveler's Key.'

Eargh, the dizzy Glen groaned and willed himself to snap out of it. He stumbled back until his hip banged the edge of the table, the sound reverberating inside the empty throne room and darkness covering the night sky seen beyond the open windows. Time had moved forward. Most of the buzz had died out outside, but he heard people leaving the yard and others returning to the palace through the main entrance.

'Don't let the witch hunt for the Banshee' the old seer's words echoed inside the high-ceiling hall and Aelrindel walked inside moving like she had worked the fields all day or sat on a stone bench for half of it.

"Vaelenn?" She asked approaching the edge of the table with the rigid Glen still grabbing at the far corner across from her.

"She'll sleep in the guest house," he rustled through his teeth and the witch sensed his darkening mood. She paused to examine the empty throne room, then the table and finally Glen himself.

"It was taxing to fulfill all their demands, but they wanted to know," Aelrindel explained. "Time flew past very quickly."

"Know whether they'll have better crops or recover from the fever," Glen rustled. "The moment you voice the future it changes, this I was told many times."

"It's true. Small things always change, or bigger."

Great.

"Then what the hell do they hope to discover?" Glen growled before he could control himself. "What good is to know I'll travel on a donkey tomorrow when I won't?"

"The essence of a scene remains. The less details a seer gives the more it remains unchanged in its core. You might not use a donkey or a horse, but travel in the near future you shall. I won't divulge more."

What a bunch of crock!

Glen sucked a deep breath in, nostrils expanding and then he held it, pursing his mouth tightly. He rounded the table and pulled a chair back to sit on. Made a ton of noise trying to get his legs fit via shoving the table away and a mini mess. The plates clattered tossing foodstuff about, empty goblets toppled and utensils clanged on bottles.

"Can I taste some of your food afore you break everything?" She teased and Glen eyed the suddenly emboldened witch for a long moment.

"Sure," he finally rustled and went to offer her the last of the cake, Lianthorn had brought him five in total, two strawberry cakes -now eaten and two apple pies that had suffered the same fate and that lime fruit cake Glen had only partially tasted, but the witch had moved fast in the meantime. She located the large plate with the beef steaks, now covered in dried blood and went in on the meat with gusto. Even producing small satisfied sounds amidst the disturbing noises of her sharp teeth chewing vigorously at the raw steak like a carnivore.

"I'm famished," Aelrindel explained in between chomps, blood dripping down her chin. "This is… greatly cooked."

A sober Glen smacked his lips and went to refill his goblet, but the witch again sensed his discomfort and slowly stopped munching. She dropped the small piece of red meat on the plate to examine the Monarch's face.

"Surely you've seen a Zilan eat before," the witch remarked. "You're the King of Wetull."

"It's barely heated, I like my food roasted properly," Glen grunted. "Crunchy is the word."

"The heat destroys the meat, offers little in the way of nutrients."

"I'm of the exact opposite opinion," Glen argued.

"I'll finish it later," the witch decided sadly.

"The dogs might fight you for it," Glen retorted and she laughed, several lightstones left unused by Lianthorn inside the hall, Vaelenn was a frugal governor, lighting up one after the other as if on cue.

A neat little trick.

Still impressive.

"What is the Monarch thinking?" Aelrindel asked coyly and Glen thought he could still see some of her real face behind the shimmering illusion.

"Why hide when everyone knows who you are?" He asked measuring his words. "I've seen you earlier with Olonelis."

"I'm tired," she told him. "And you seem to treat this visage better."

"You got everything twisted inside yer head. I like many things," Glen argued and Aelrindel smiled in an elfin manner before she switched to Moira effortlessly. Then her face turned even more familiar, the nose smaller and Glen's hand banged on the table in frustration to stop her. "Show me your real face," he told the flinching witch hoarsely. "Not the dead and the spells ye weave sorceress."

His words almost physically knocked Aelrindel down from her chair. She blinked with a strangled gasp escaping her lips and the lights flickered, as the illusions retreated. The shocked sorceress Zilan face emerged in perfect symmetry. A haunted splendor with high cheekbones, large but rationed, slightly curved pointed ears escaping a mane of blue and purple long cascading hair and a pair of full pouty lips. Proportional, but very exotic eyes with touches of silver and gold swimming in azure, and framed in dark circles. Tanned skin with a tiny cluster of laughter wrinkles and imperfections at the now tensed mouth.

God damn, Glen thought impressed as the better illumination brought a ton of details to light.

"Ah. There you are again. To hide this is criminal, so don't," he scolded her. "What's wrong?" Glen probed seeing her just about to collapse and having trouble breathing.

"This is all wrong," Aelrindel croaked. "Too different."

"As opposed to what?" Glen retorted. "If you're surprised by my reaction, don't. I had time to cool off and dealt with plenty other stuff since then. Although," he added rapping his fingers on the table, while she steadied herself at the other edge of it, a hand on her chest. Is she going to have a heart attack? That'll be a darn shame and difficult to explain away to those left without a divination today. Well, sorry but the old witch had a heavy stroke after hours of exposure under the sun and dropped dead. Speaking of old, how old is thirteen centuries in Zilan years, give or take a couple of more? And how the fuck is she keeping in such good shape? "I'd like to know, why did you want me killed in the first place? We had a good meeting in Rida," Glen added with a suspicious glance at the half-eaten, now flies attacked, leftover raw steak.

How many hours was this left there?

Seven?

Aelrindel breathed out and stared at the solemn Glen unsure. "I wanted Reeves punished… never mind, never wished to harm Hardir O' Fardor. You are too important to… many," she added hesitant or in difficulty to find the right word. Glen had the same thing happen to him, but had worked through it moving to a sideways topic when lying or when trying to hide the truth as folk oft do. "Important to Wetull, I meant."

Nicely put.

"I forgive you," he told her magnanimously and she appeared even more confused, even vulnerable, which prompted him to stand up to help, but decided not to approach her given how the previous attempt had gone and the witch's volatile state. "Let's start again."

"You sound so mature all of a sudden. Can I think… about it for a moment?" She asked hoarsely.

No.

"Of course," Glen replied. "And couldn't help but notice you look pretty rough. Have some rest first."

"Didn't you say I looked great—?" the witch tried to say, but he stopped her raising his hand, fist closed and extended index finger pointing to the high ceiling.

"Not verbatim. There's no need to embroider me words," Glen corrected her and seeing this was the wrong road to keep heading down to -given the furious expression she assumed straightaway, he adroitly pivoted like a seasoned professional charmer, remembering to channel some of past's great Romeos like Dante and Alix. The fact that both womanizers were now long dead and fully buried not escaping him. "Perfection is like a curse, best to avoid it. Now real beauty, is peppered with little imperfections inside and outside. The latter, I see afore me."

God damn it mate, he congratulated himself. You nailed it!

"Young Reeves," Aelrindel panted looking worse than a moment ago, "It was you all along."

Well, not really.

"Ugh?" the witch frowned as if she had sensed his thoughts and Glen acted fast to squash any potential mishap.

"Take Lady Vaelenn's bedchamber. Best room in this here joint," he told her and signaled for Lianthorn to get his arse moving. The Zilan had waited by a side door in case the sorceress needed a fresh meal served, but she apparently had found solace eating whatever had been left on the table from earlier.

Left for good reason.

Good grief.

Eight had warned him the witches had a bizarre palate.

"Who was the boy under the bridge?" The still troubled sorceress asked, and Glen grimaced not knowing how to answer her query.

"Let's talk of this another time," he replied in his well-drilled lordly manner.

Also known as deftly pivoting in certain circles or stalling in all others.

-

Ten minutes later

8th of Cerveth

I need to study a bit more about Zilan seers. This intuition thing, is rather problematic, he thought having a last goblet of wine before heading to rest in Rothomir's old bedroom. Thought about having another smoke, but he wanted to get up early –it was already pretty late in the evening- and even return to Taras with Uvrycres ahead of the knights.

Glen didn't know what to do with the witch. Soletha and Olonelis wanted her to stay in Abarat, the locals appeared keen on visiting the Sibyl and perhaps bringing all these fanfare to Taras wasn't useful without smoothing some stuff over.

Need to talk with Lith.

Lithoniela had left Morn Taras to stay with Jinx in her new more central apartment, right on the main square and very near the market.

Then again, fuck them all.

Glen heard a strange tick-tack, the sound gone after a brief second and raised his head, while standing up from the ivory adorned Governor's throne. The hall appeared empty, the summer nights quiet in Abarat, and his eyes scanned every shadow left by the lightstone torches. Lianthorn had come to turn most of them off and inform Glen the comely witch was fast asleep, but enough remained for anyone to sneak up on him. Glen glanced at the table and then across the hall and the intricately covered with painted Zilan and animals of all kinds walls.

The table creaked and Glen snapped his gaze that way again, this time reaching to unsheathe his sword. He paused with a hand on the pommel, when the hooded figure sitting down cross-legged on top of the table chuckled in a childish manner.

"Nervous much?" Nym teased, her face hidden behind a blank black mask.

Glen pursed his mouth, then walked towards the female assassin, who jumped lithely from the table and landed quietly on her feet.

"Don't you ever use a door?" Glen queried with another search about them for the person that had made the previous noise.

"I just did," Nym retorted mirthfully. "In a sense."

"Where the fuck is Draug?" Glen grunted, not particularly in the mood and annoyed by the female's unserious behavior. "Lose that mask."

"Ah," Nym wondered and tip-toed around the scowled Monarch, while she removed her creepy mask by pushing the hood back to reveal her face and long Zilan ears.

"The hairy dude from back in Taras," Glen rustled while she twirled to a stop, using her hands to keep her cloak from wafting. "I had met him afore in Rain Minas, in almost the same circumstances. I know he's a bloody werewolf."

"A Varg."

"You think I give a cheap fuck on what they are called?" Glen roared so loud, a couple of nightingales sleeping on the open window's frame leaped away on panicky flapping wings and angry chirps of protest. "Them fuckers butchered over sixty people across the kingdom! Made a bloody pause to gnaw through most of the dead, clothes, bones and their god darn shoes, then went at it again inside the plaguing garden!" He added with a loud growl, eyes wild and frothing at the mouth.

"You wanted the witch found," Nym replied calmly, which only fueled Glen's anger even more.

"Are you serious?" Glen barked hoarsely and walked to the table to find his goblet, as he'd irritated his throat. "Ye run out of normal dogs? Frolicking wit man-eaters! Luthos curse your peoples weird arse habbits!"

"You got the witch."

"Aenymriel," Glen warned her after gulping down the contents of his goblet.

"It's Nym," the assassin corrected the bristling Monarch, who made a warning gesture at the unruffled female unable to immediately start yelling again on a sore throat.

"Whatever rocks yer boat. Where's is Draug?" Glen asked again after a tense moment.

"He was killed."

"Good," Glen replied and finally got a reaction out of the assassin. A glare of annoyance. "You need to get the rest of them out of here. You want the carcasses, we saved ye some slightly crispy sans their hides. The locals kept them. Apparently, they make good shoes."

"The pack is gone, Hardir."

"Good riddance! Shouldn't have involved them in the first plaguing place. That motherfucker gave me the shudders, damn it! Mouth full of phlegm and gnawing at every syllable!"

"Draug was loyal," Nym argued with a hiss. "Always did what he was told."

I don't care.

"Yeah?" Glen retorted mockingly. "Hmm. How about Flardryn's daughter?"

"What about her?" Nym asked with a frown. "I don't keep up with youngling gossip."

"Alas, no gossip coming out of the poor lass no more. In case you missed my point, your burly dog killed and then ate most of her," Glen grunted.

"He didn't."

"I was there!" Glen roared and smashed the goblet on the table, breaking it in three pieces.

Shite.

"There was no contract against Flardryn's daughter," Nym expounded. "That's ridiculous."

"Contract my arse! Fuck that does have to do with anything? Wolves get hungry!" Glen hissed, staring at the broken goblet troubled at the mess.

"Draug knew the rules. You describe a beast he was not."

"Cry me a river! Ain't gonna take your word over me own eyes woman! Talked to that hairy freak on top of a fucking tree," Glen growled. "He'd dragged her mutilated corpse up there and looked plenty beastly to me!"

"What did he say?"

Eh?

"The gnarly bastard could barely speak," the tired from all the barking Glen snapped angrily, sounding on the verge of a severe case of pneumonia and Nym shook her head right and left as if she had figured out what the problem was.

"You are upset. The witch is very difficult to deal with—" Nym started and stopped to dodge half-a-goblet Glen hurled her way with a fluid pirouette.

The assassin was wrong.

But had excellent reflexes.

"I'm fine. The matter with her is handled. Call them off," Glen warned the standing up assassin leader. "Whomever you've unleashed out there. I'm scared to ask."

"As you wish Hardir," Nym replied evenly and just after Glen nodded trying to clear his raw throat, she added. "What about Ralnor? He killed Sir Nyvorlas."

Now you care?

"Leaving aside the thorny fact we just killed a lot of people ourselves in order to find them," Glen replied measuring his words. "We got him. He was too injured to be a problem."

"Uhm. If you mishandle matters with Edlenn's daughter," Nym warned. "Ralnor will be a problem yet again."

How about ye snuffle on Luthos' farts lassie? The scowled Monarch thought, riled up to his eyebrows with people shoving their advice down his throat.

"I rarely mishandle matters, and Larn didn't make it. Good riddance times two," came the insulted Glen's boastful retort and heard a shriek coming from somewhere above them. He checked the ceiling but saw nothing. "Alright, who is that sneaky fucker?" He grunted warningly. "Din?"

"Dar Nalta. She's shy," Nym replied and got a fancy black scabbard from under her cloak. Straight and engraved with silver details over the lacquered ebony sword sheath, it resembled one of the blades Nym carried on her back. Glen recognized the type of sword Nym had in the meantime placed carefully on the table between them.

He stooped to touch it, found the nicely crafted leather handle and unsheathed the smokey-steel, very polished single-edged blade. The minimalistic dark look, even in the beautifully engraved silver details of the scabbard didn't lessen the craftsmanship of the rather long straight sword. It was light to handle and Glen examined it. An exotic blade, of an exotic type.

Daichim had called it a Katacim.

"Where did you get this?" He asked the coyly smiling assassin leader.

"It's a special sword. The great Isil O' Mecatan learned the type from a Tull Cautara-Magor blacksmith long before the First Era. He made the blade to honor a Bakufu Segun, but he refused it. When the Coven asked the Imperial Blacksmith to forge them a sword to gift to King Ninthalor, Isil presented this one and then made two more."

"What does it do?" Glen asked moving the sword right and left to check for imperfections, but the old steel had held up surprisingly well. The only damage he could find was in the handle itself, where it was obvious the leather strips had been repaired several times in the past.

"I don't know. It's a capricious blade. Isil named it Eirkor and Baltoris had it with her, when she perished. She was buried with it."

"Where is her grave?"

"Oakenfalls," Nym replied and Glen pursed his mouth. He gave the assassin a side glance.

"You looted the Queen's grave?"

"I brought a rare gift to Hardir O' Fardor, as I've promised," Nym countered and Glen grunted, before sheathing the sword. He dropped it on the table and the blade slipped a couple of fingers out of its scabbard. "The Circle serves the throne."

"Uhm," Glen murmured and went to sit at the chair he'd used during his meal earlier. He run his fingers over the scabbard but got no feedback from the weapon. "It's a fine sword. I appreciate the gesture Aenymriel."

Nym grimaced, but managed a stiff smile. "You are welcome, Hardir."

"What did Larn do?" Glen asked.

"Forfeited a contract. Oras is harsh on these matters."

"Oras, or you?" Glen queried and she shrugged her shoulders. "What was the contract?"

"The Queen wanted the sorceress killed. Ralnor decided not to do it. They had grown up together or some other silly thing," Nym elucidated. "I thought he'll choose the present over the past."

"I don't like surprises… Nym," Glen warned her one more time. "As for the old Queen, her beef with the witches was misplaced. Edlenn had nothing to do with the king's death. You killed the wrong person."

"Sometimes mistakes are made," Nym answered stiffly.

"You were punished for the same act," Glen continued. "Yet the killer managed to slip away. Some believe it was the Nigurug."

"I heard the story, but there's a tale that speaks of two killers," Nym replied.

"I know. Stupid riddles, purposefully veiling the truth and speaking nonsense," Glen retorted tiredly, his voice spent and the time running very late. "Find the Fiend and you'll have your killer Nym."

"What if there was another?"

"Then the first culprit, shall reveal the second," Glen replied and reached to fill one of the toppled goblets with wine. "Better yet, don't search for two killers, but a pair. A couple, a teacher and his apprentice. Hells any type of relationship might explain the weird gibberish the Sigel sprouted."

Nym had left him alone after sharing a goblet of wine with him in silence. The strange noisy acolyte she had brought with her didn't make an appearance and when Sir Alan Kirk entered the hall after she had melted into her shades, the tired Glen was half-asleep already.

"The knights will leave on the morrow," Alan reported. "I'll rest for a couple of hours to be ready to follow them, Milord."

"You'll stay in Abarat," Glen ordered rubbing at his forehead and kept his eyes on the exotic sword placed on the table in front of him. "Allow the sorceress to have a bit of fun with the locals and then bring her to Morn Taras."

"Aye, sire," Alan replied. "What about the other matter?"

"Use a cage without holes. Samak and Hesam shall handle it. They… have the required skills for the job. They'll depart tomorrow after I'm gone."

"It's a long journey," Alan warned and Glen grimaced.

"If he dies, he dies," he told the human Rokae. "I owe the ugly bastard nothing."

Alan nodded and left the hall. His spurs were heard on the granite tiles for a while, as the torches flickered to combat the growing darkness inside the silent hall. Glen breathed, pushed his back on the chair determined to catch a bit of rest and the sword laying on the table stirred suddenly when the Monarch's eyes closed.

The hovering blade snapped forward and sheathed itself fully in the fancy scabbard. On the wall's surface –the one on Glen's left shoulder, where the central torches depicted the Monarch's shadow resting in the chair next to the large table, along several other shadowy details- a second figure stood next to the table highlighted by the lit torches.

This shadow, resembling the sitting Monarch, placed the sword he'd just sheathed properly back on the table and then dissolved into nothingness.

-

During the hot summer of 3401, the month of Metelaire Asta (Cerveth) and not long into the dawn of the Third Era, three years and five months into Arguen Garth's reign and now almost five years into the times of Hardir O' Fardor, the hallowed Moon of Dan entered Abarat. The citizens of the small city-castle, guarding the entrance into Nesande's Garden, flocked in large numbers to witness one of the Triad's Sibyls up close and ask for her divinations, almost thirteen centuries after the previous 1st Sibyl, High Priestess Edlenn O' Sintoriela had been entombed under the mountain and the fabled witches of the Coven had left mainland Wetull.

-

Phinariel O' Glorfalc,

'The Boorish Poet'

Jarlinde of all the Folk,

Mistress of Glorfalc, Warden of Rodos Gondobar & the Nor Maze Peaks of the Far North.

Former Royal Scribe, Advisor & permanent member of the Queen's Council,

in the Moon's Return

(Prologue)

Entered into the royal library with a royal decree in 210 NC,

Circa 3416 IC (3rd Era)

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